Oblivion of Bourbon
by Blue.Rose.Marcella
Summary: Takes place after Season 2 finale. Dalaric friendship drabbles - NOT slash. Needed to get my fix somehow. Damon and Alaric drown their sorrows at the Mystic Grill following the events of the sacrifice.


**_A/N: _**_Just some Dalaric friendship drabbles I was thinking about. Takes place after the Season 2 finale. I needed to alleviate my ever-present emotions regarding Alaric's death. _

_Please enjoy!  
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**Oblivion of Bourbon**

It was Tuesday. An ordinary, unspectacular, mundane Tuesday. There was no holiday or celebration about it. It did not fall in the midst of summer vacation. It was just a day like any other to the rest of the world, but stood for something far more significant for Alaric Saltzman.

The Mystic Grill was clearing out as the hour grew late. Ric was one of the few people left, pretending to grade papers as he drank his bourbon. The truth was, however, that his mind was far too preoccupied to concentrate on Tyler Lockwood's semester essay about Civil War weaponry. The more he stared mindlessly at the paper, the blurrier it became.

Instead, he was focused on far more relevant dangers: vampire fangs and sacrifice rituals. One single Original hybrid with delusions of grandeur that had found it necessary to involve Mystic Falls in his twisted, deranged coup for world domination. A monster that had unceremoniously killed the only woman he had ever loved, other than Isobel. And though he had not been there to witness it, the imagery in his head was far more vivid than he would have liked.

It had already been a month, and already it seemed as though the others were moving on. Even Jeremy and Elena, who looked to Jenna as their sole guardian, had made their post-bereavement return to school. Mourning was something of a tradition to them now, unfortunately. They had grown accustomed to the grieving process, and were somehow numbed by its sting.

Alaric, however, had been struggling all month to mitigate his ambivalence. He had spent years attempting to hunt down and kill vampires for the very same reason. They had taken his Isobel away from him.

But then – he had met the Salvatore brothers. They were different than he had expected. Stefan was a self-proclaimed pacifist, and Damon – well – Damon was a good person to have on your side. The twisted friendship that they had developed since his arrival in Mystic Falls had certainly not been on the itinerary. But there was something undeniable about the paralleled way in which their goals were aligned. They both desired to protect the people they loved from supernatural dangers – and it just so happened that those they wished to protect were from within the same inner circle. It had resulted in some sort of bizarre camaraderie – the whole "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" dynamic. It was akin to wartime bonding that took place between allied states…a paradigm that a history teacher was all-too familiar with.

But despite Damon's companionship – and the generous notion that Jeremy and Elena had welcomed him into their home in the aftermath of Jenna's murder – he had never felt so alone.

He tipped back the remainder of his tumbler, sliding it away from himself.

"Another round," he stated decisively. There was an unrecognizable weariness laced in his voice that surprised even his own ears.

Matt Donovan looked at him surreptitiously. Alaric purposely averted his eyes in reply, pretending, once more, to give a shit about Tyler Lockwood's final grade of junior year.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Mr. Saltzman?" Matt ventured. He swung a towel over his shoulder and attempted to probe the teacher with his eyes.

"I'm not paying you to babysit me. I'm paying you to fill me up," Ric grumbled irritably. Comments of this nature were becoming more and more commonplace, and he had hardly taken the time to consider the implications of his uncharacteristically venomous tongue.

Matt did not reply. Alaric did not look up to gauge his reaction. Instead, within moments, his tumbler was sliding back in his direction with another double-shot of bourbon. Footsteps alerted him that Matt had returned to his previous task.

"I'll have the same."

Ric didn't need to assess this new visitor to determine his identity. The voice of Damon Salvatore was quite distinguishable, as was his uncanny ability to sneak onto the bar stool beside him, undetected.

They sat in silence for a moment. Alaric began making half-hearted notes on Tyler's paper with his red pen, providing superficial compliments on word usage and spelling. Damon was sipping quietly on his own shot of the amber-colored liquor.

"You haven't returned my calls. It hurts my feelings," Damon declared at last, unable to resist an opportunity to find humor in the situation.

"What are you doing here, Damon?" Alaric asked, deadpan. The question came out sounding more like a suspicious affront.

"Same as you. Drowning my sorrows. Finding love at the bottom of the bottle. Spoiling my liver so that my heart finds relief. The usual poetic commentary."

Ric managed a half-hearted smirk at this, in spite of himself.

The silence continued. It was strange how moments of this sort were so comfortable with Damon. There was a mutual kind of reflection that took place during these times, almost as though they fed off one another's energy to stay sane.

"Any word from Stefan?" Alaric inquired, chancing a glance in his companion's direction. The distasteful way in which Damon turned up his nose seemed to provide all the answer he needed.

"Not a peep."

"How's Elena taking it?"

Damon turned to Alaric, providing a cocky flick of his eyebrows. Ric hated that. It made him want to punch that look of self-righteousness from his face.

"I should ask you the same question. You are, after all, the one staying in the Gilbert house."

Ric inhaled sharply. This comment undeniably stung. He hadn't been around much…and when he was, he was not nearly as perceptive as he probably should be. The guilty knot in his conscience reasoned that he probably owed this to them. It was what a real parent would have done.

"But, in any case, she's devastated," Damon provided, once he realized that Ric was in no position to answer. "Loss seems to be playing something of a cruel joke on her."

Ric hadn't quite considered that before. Not only had both Jenna and John gotten caught in the latest crossfire, but now Stefan had abandoned home, too. He had been Elena's rock for so long, and now he was gallivanting around as Klaus's right-hand man.

"And how are _you_ doing?" Ric ventured quietly.

A flicker of something vulnerable traveled across Damon's face for but a second. Then, of course, he made a melodramatic show of shrugging and turning his nose up, feigning apathy.

"What, with Stefan gone? We've gone our separate ways before. It's not as though I pine for him, writing mushy bromance letters all the while. He'll live his life his own way, and I'll live _mine._" As if to demonstrate the validity of his own words, he downed the rest of his glass in one. He waved shortly in Matt's direction to indicate needing a refill.

"About Elena, Damon," Alaric pressed.

"Oh, come off it, Ric," Damon said dismissively. "We both know her heart left with Stefan nearly a month ago."

Alaric sipped on his liquor pensively. Damon was never one to admit anything damning aloud, but Ric knew him well enough to succeed in reading between the lines. He could tell that he was hurting.

"She kissed me, you know," Damon declared distantly, his eyes looking to something far beyond the walls of the bar.

Ric expected to be surprised. But he wasn't. "What was the occasion?" he asked bitterly. There was a caveat, and he knew it.

Damon smirked morbidly. "Death."

"Ah. Deathbed pity kiss," Ric surmised, sloshing his drink in circles inside the glass.

Damon emitted a nonchalant noise that sounded much like a scoff. "Right," he muttered. "Elena's sick little way of saying a proper good-bye. Well, ironic that I'm still walking, huh? _That's _gonna make things awkward." He chuckled at the last bit, as if envisioning Elena stammering in his presence for months to come.

Alaric was watching him carefully. The way in which his eyelid twitched indignantly, his lips curled into a twisted smile of disdain. He had nearly matched him on alcohol intake as well.

"It can never happen, you know," Ric offered realistically. He didn't need to elaborate – Damon caught on quickly.

"Yep. Her and Stefan are _soul mates,_ after all," he added derisively.

They allowed this new reality to saturate the air between them, concentrating on their own personal interpretations of it. By the time Damon broke the silence, Alaric had almost forgotten he was there.

"It's too bad about Jenna," he offered. It was a very benign comment to make, devoid of any real sympathy or judgment. However, the strain behind his voice spoke volumes in and of itself, and Alaric felt the hidden emotion nonetheless.

"Thanks," he mumbled quietly. Another pregnant pause.

"They offering you affordable room and board over at the Gilbert house?" Damon asked, his usual twinge of sarcasm tainting his question.

Ric winced involuntarily. "It's…different," he managed. "I want to be there for them. I want to be there to honor Jenna. But it's…it's strange to have a reminder of her at every corner."

Damon nodded thoughtfully before gently nudging Ric's elbow with his own. "Well. If you ever need a place…" He trailed off, as if unable to finish the sentence.

"I appreciate it, Damon."

Damon was sipping on his bourbon again as he seemed to think of a snarky afterthought.

"I mean. You know. You'll need to buy your own groceries…and do your own laundry." He smirked. "And we have a chore wheel for everything else. Oh, and we take turns braiding each other's hair and telling ghost stories every Friday. It's a riot. You'll love it."

Ric could not stifle his amused snort.

Damon's face faltered in slight. "Not that Stefan will be indulging with us any time soon…"

Ric's heart bled for him. It was a feeling he was all-too familiar with. Loneliness. Abandonment. The empty echoes of a much-too spacious house – or room – reminding you of the glaring void that insists on hauntingly lingering everywhere you go.

"He'll be back," Ric began. Even though he was the one saying the words, he wasn't sure they were true.

"I know," Damon echoed with a sidelong smirk. Something in his eyes indicated that he understood Ric's ambivalence, and reflected it back. However, neither of them wished to shatter this illusion.

The gravity of the conversation settled between them, like an anchor into reality. No matter how deeply either of them wished to alter their own existence, it was nigh impossible. The only saving grace to their mutual misery was the unspoken ability to discuss it, and subsequently dismiss it with sarcasm and liquor. It was a temporary Band-Aid on a gaping wound, waiting patiently to reopen and force a painful confrontation.

But for now, they were both content to sip on their bourbon in silence, subconsciously appreciative of the other's company. With Damon beside him, Ric was reminded that he was not alone. And for now, that simple comfort was enough to provide a semblance of hope on the horizon. A promise for better days and brighter conversations. They were brothers at heart – warriors engaged in the same battle. They would persevere – and they would come down hard on those who opposed them.

It didn't have to be said out loud. Damon understood Alaric's desire for revenge. And when push came to shove, Damon would be there right beside him, holding Klaus's arms behind his back as Alaric drove a white oak stake right through his fucking heart.

**END**


End file.
